The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and the assassins sent to kill Ivan Vanko finally dropped all pretenses. Guns drawn, they opened fire on each other without hesitation.
Amid the chaos, the bartender rushed to Howard Stark's side, shielding him and the man beside him as they made their way toward the exit.
A few bullets whizzed past them—an enemy had charged in, attempting to block their escape.
The bartender quickly shoved Howard and his companion under a table, then fired back without hesitation.
Three shots rang out in quick succession, all three hitting the assassin squarely in the chest.
Strangely enough, these assassins didn't seem like trained professionals. Their aim was nowhere near as sharp as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s agents.
"Sir, we have to go."
After taking down the attacker, the bartender moved to escort Howard Stark out of the bar.
Two more gunshots echoed, and blood spurted from the bartender's chest.
His eyes widened in disbelief as he turned toward the shooter.
How was this possible?
The man had taken three bullets to the chest—his shirt soaked in blood—and he was still standing like nothing had happened.
By all logic, he should've collapsed and bled out on the spot. What the hell was going on?
But no one would answer the bartender's question now—his vision blurred, and his body hit the floor with a heavy thud.
Howard Stark lay flat on the ground, too afraid to move. His heart ached as he stared at the bartender's lifeless body beside him.
More bullets rained down, forcing Howard to duck his head and stay down. He didn't dare move an inch.
Groans echoed through the bar as one by one, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were taken down.
There were only three assassins, yet they seemed almost invincible—no matter how many times they were shot, it didn't slow them down.
They didn't even try to dodge incoming fire. They just kept advancing and mowing down S.H.I.E.L.D. agents mercilessly.
That's what led to such heavy casualties.
The situation was rapidly spiraling out of control.
A calm voice suddenly cut through the chaos.
Howard Stark turned his head—and was met with the face of an unfamiliar young man.
"This place is too dangerous. You need to leave—now. You're not their target."
Howard, anxious and on edge, shouted back, "Go, kid! This has nothing to do with you!"
He wasn't surprised the young man recognized him. As he often said, he was a bit of a celebrity. People knowing who he was wasn't unusual.
"I'll handle them," the young man—Alex—said seriously. "But while I'm dealing with this, you need to stay down and not move."
"Hey, kid," Howard hissed, "This isn't a damn movie! You're gonna get yourself killed trying to play hero!"
But Alex didn't respond. Instead, he reached down, picked up a shard of broken glass from the floor—
The cold glint of the glass flashed through the air, and blood sprayed a second later.
The shard pierced straight through one assassin's wrist.
The man's gun dropped to the floor.
Alex didn't stop—he threw two more shards.
Both hit their marks.
Two more assassins let out muffled groans, their wrists also struck. Their weapons hit the ground.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Howard Stark stared in stunned disbelief, looking at Alex as if he were some kind of monster.
Not even S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top agents could pull off something like that.
Hell, not even the Howling Commandos back in the war had hands that deadly.
Glass shards were too light to throw with that kind of power. It wasn't humanly possible.
"Stay here and don't move," Alex told him again.
Then he turned to the remaining S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. "You lot—fall back and protect Stark!"
They didn't know who Alex was, but the look in his eyes and the chaos around them made it clear: now wasn't the time for questions.
They immediately moved to form a protective line around Howard.
Unfortunately, the only exit had already been blocked by the assassins. There was no way out for now. All they could do was hold their position and wait for the mysterious young man to finish the job.
With everyone's eyes on him, Alex strode confidently toward the assassins.
They were clearly enhanced somehow—shrugging off bullets like nothing. He was curious to know: if he punched one of them hard enough to destroy their heart, would they still keep coming?
"I knew this job wouldn't be that easy," muttered one of the assassins—a bald Black man. With a grunt, he pulled the shard from his wrist as if it were nothing, not even flinching.
"Laim, what the hell is this kid?" another assassin with long hair asked, glancing at their third teammate—a man in a dress shirt.
"No idea what he is," the one named Laim replied, his eyes locked on Alex. "But he's not one of those disgusting undead."
That word caught Alex's attention, but he didn't press for details.
Instead, he sped up, rushing toward the nearest assassin.
"Perfect. I'll tear him apart!" the bald assassin growled, grinning viciously.
"Don't transform here!" Laim barked in warning. "Not in front of all these people!"
"Please. I won't even need to."
The bald assassin lunged toward Alex—just as Alex closed the distance.
The next moment, the sound of breaking bones rang out.
The assassin flew backward like a cannonball, slamming into the wall hard enough to make the entire bar shake.
When he hit the ground, he didn't move again.
His chest had completely caved in—reduced to a pulp.
Alex had ended the fight with a single punch.
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